Rarl Words Prompts
by Just Another Introvert
Summary: Prompts typically revolving around Ron Anderson and Carl Grimes and Rarl brought to you by the ol' faithful word generator.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN THE WALKING DEAD

Oak: *mild slash*

"This is my favorite tree," Ron says quietly with a content little hum, running his fingers idly through Carl's hair as they sit huddled together up against the thick oak tree.

Carl snorts lifting his head up to look at Ron's face. "You have a favorite tree?"

Ron nods, face serious as the grave. "Yeah, and it's this one right here," he says.

Carl laughs a little again, shifting his position to sit up. "Why this one? There's a t least like...twenty other trees here. Why the hell is this one so special?"

Ron smiles sheepishly, looking down at his knees. It's always amusing to him how much more sentimental than Carl he is, he always thought it'd be the other way around since Carl went so long without anything to hold onto long term. It apparently had exactly the opposite effect and Carl finds little merit if any in being soppy about places, dates, or physical possessions.

Carl watches Ron's cheeks slowly burn up into a dusty pink and knows that something's up. He scotches closer to Ron, smiling at him and bracing both of his hands on the taller boy's knees to lean closer.

"You actually have a reason for this particular oak tree being your favorite?" he asks, quirking his eyebrow up playfully.

Ron's blush darkens and he let's out a timid chuckle. "Um...yeah."

"What is it?" Carl asks curiously.

"Nothing…"

"No, what is it?"

"I said it's nothing Carl," Ron insists, leaning further back into the trunk of the tree.

"It's obviously something."

"No, just drop it."

"No, c'mon, you can't even look me in the eye!"

"Shut up, Carl."

"No, is it your favorite because….it's the tallest and when you climb up you can see all of Alexandria?"

"I'm afraid of heights, dipshit."

"Is it because the trunk is sturdy and nice to rest against?"

"I'd prefer napping on the couch."

"Is it because….Jesus, I don't know,... because the leaves are like….really really green?"

Ron let's out a laugh at his friend's ridiculous answer and shakes his head.

Carl huffs out and sits back on his haunches. "Ok, asshole, why do you like this tree? Why this. Tree. Right. Here. And not one of the other twenty some trees in Alexandria?" Carl asks, emphasising with curt little nods of his head.

"Just drop it Carl," Ron says with another little laugh, this one more forced and less breezy than the previous, his facing flushing horribly again.

Carl groans and playfully punches him in the arm. "No, c'mon, why?"

"It's stupid."

"You're stupid, c'mon, tell me."

"I like this tree because it's where I first saw you," Ron admits, still staring at his knees.

2.) Deal: *slash*

"Why won't you tell me?" Ron whines playfully, currently splayed out on Enid's little twin bed, covered in an odd assortment of patched up quilts, candy wrappers, dirty laundry, and Ron's lanky limbs.

Enid blushes and shakes her head. "It's embarrasing, ok?"

"I promise I-"

"Don't!" Enid snaps, cutting him off. "Everyone always makes dumb promises like that, swearing they won't laugh or make jokes. Just. Don't."

Ron sighs, rolling onto his stomach and looking over at his friend. "Come on, please? I already know half of it."

Enid freezes in her tracks, ceases her pacing and looks at Ron with wide eyes. "Wait, what? Wh-what do you know?"

Ron chuckles and shakes his head. "Mik told me this morning, all in a fit of nerves, that he tried to kiss you and that you knocked his fucking block off. I just wanna hear it from you, hear what really happened. It was kinda hard to tell what Mikey was saying through the tears."

Enid's eyes widen further and a look of remorse creeps onto her features. "He was crying?"

Ron nods sullenly. "Yeah. He was pretty upset. Can't you just tell me what happened from your perspective?"

Enid sighs and walks over to flop onto the bed next to Ron. "I didn't even mean to punch him...not hard anyway," she mutters. "It just...caught me off guard, ok? That's all you need to know."

"Do you like him?"

"That doesn't matter," Enid mutters, rolling herself up in one of the various quilts like a roll of sushi and flopping onto her side, back facing Ron.

"Yeah it does!" Ron insists, sitting up and rolling her back over to face him. "That's the million dollar question, idiot!"

"It's none of your business, Anderson, screw off," she retorts, sticking out her tongue and trying to roll back over.

"Aw, c'mon E. You punched the guy in the face, you should at least acknowledge your feelings towards him, ya know? It's only right," Ron says with a sigh.

"Either shut up and put on the next Friday the 13th movie or go away," Enid mutters, finally succeeding to roll herself back onto her side.

"If you tell me I'll put on the movie," Ron promises, trying to strike up a deal. "I'll get off my ass and put in the VHS so you don't have to AND I'll go to the kitchen to get us some chips."

"No," Enid replies flatly. "Not good enough."

Ron sighs, throwing his head back. "God, what else do you want me to do? I'll….I'll get us some Swedish Fish too."

"No," Enid says. "No….I'll tell you if…."

"If what?" Ron asks, raising an eyebrow.

"If you say aloud that you have a boner for Carl Grimes."

"What?" Ron asks, thinking he must've misheard her.

"You heard me, asshole," she says, rolling over to face him, face lit up with a demonic little smile. "Say you like Carl Grimes and I'll tell you if I like Mikey. It's a fair deal."

"Why do you think I like Carl?" Ron asks, trying to figure out how the hell she knows about his feelings harbored towards the other boy. He thought he kept them pretty well under wraps….apparently not.

"It's obvious as fuck," Enid replies, squirming around in her quilt cacoon. "Anyone with eyesight can tell. That's actually what me and Mick were joking about before he...you know."

Ron's face falls and he slumps over. "Wait...so...so everyone knows?"

"I'd think so," Enid says, still smiling like the cat who caught the canary. "I heard Daryl say something about it the other day."

"Oh Jesus…" Ron groans, burying his face in his hands. "Oh shit…"

Enid laughs at his discomfort.

"Well, it's not like your feelings towards Mik aren't almost always out on display," Ron replies edgily. "EVERYONE suspected you two and it was just confirmed this morning….well, up until the part of the story when you pull a right hook on him."

Now it's Ron's turn to laugh and Enid's turn to moan pitifully and shield the shame on her face with her palms.

"Ugh," she mutters. "I fucked up, ok?! Do….do we have a deal or not? I'll admit it if you do."

Ron sighs, suddenly not finding his friend's predicament funny since he's sort of in the same boat. He nods and extends his right hand. "Ok, deal."

"Deal," Enid says, shaking his hand. "On the count of three. One….two….three."

3.) Tongue: *slash*

"Can I have a kiss?" Ron asks, batting his eyelashes and pulling the most mock-darling face he can.

Carl rolls his eyes and lowers the brim of his hat to hide the blush on his face.

Ron chuckles and gives the shorter boy's hand a squeeze. Embarrasing Carl will never get old or cease to amuse him. It's not hard to do so either, only further enhancing the enjoyment factor of it all.

But in all seriousness, Ron really would like a kiss, even just a quick peck on the cheek. He knows even that, an amish little display of affection as that, is a long shot. Carl is none too fond of PDA, not in the least bit. It's taken Ron two months to convince his boyfriend to even hold his hand while walking down the streets of Alexandria, and that took lots and lots of puppy-dog eyes and whining on Ron's behalf. It's not that Carl doesn't love Ron, it's just that...well...he feels uncomfortable displaying it in front of everyone. He's always afraid that while they're walking down the street, hand in hand, they'll stumble across his dad and he knows how his dad feels about their relationship….he's accepting but he's still a little ooked out by the thought of his little boy being kissed and having his hand held and having other things being touched….His dad has talked to him about it and made it very clear that he's ok with it but that doesn't want to see anything too psychical.

"Well?" Ron prompts, tilting his head to the side.

"Well what?" Carl asks, stopping to look up at him.

Ron smiles, a big goofy grin that makes Carl's heart hammer almost painfully against his ribs. "Can I have a kiss?"

"We're outside," Carl mutters, looking around him to see if anyone's nearby.

"No one's really around," Ron points out. He slowly leans down and nudges his cold nose into Carl's cheek bone, his lips barely making contact with the shell of his ear. "No one will see us," he whispers. "I promise." His breath ghosts across Carl's neck, causing goosebumps to pop up on his skin and make him shiver like a rabid chihuahua.

Carl pulls back a bit and looks around them again warily, just to be sure. He still doesn't spot anyone milling around. "Ok," he mutters, eyelids sliding half closed and breath hitching. "Ok."

Ron smiles like a child being promised candy and quickly inches his mouth from Carl's ear to his lips.

It's soft at first, their lips barely touching. It's really just a brush of flesh, sweet and timid as a first grader kissing the love of it's life in the school hallway on Valentine's Day after presenting them with a crappy cardboard Hallmark card. Ron leans further in after a few seconds, their mouths mushing together a bit more intensely. Ron sighs out through his nose, a happy little noise that makes Carl's heart beat even faster, if that's possible. Ron snakes his free hand around Carl's waist and pulls him flush against him. Carl, never knowing exactly what to do with his hands when kissing, awkwardly weaves his arm between them and over Ron's left shoulder. Ron tilts his head to the side for a better angle and manages to slip his top lip between Carl's lips, like a divider, and suckles Carl's bottom lip in his mouth like rock candy. Really bruised up and chapped rock candy that's ten times as sweet. Carl makes a little noise of surprise in his throat, caught a little off guard, but he rolls with it and let's it happen, enjoying it. He kisses back, catching Ron's upper lip between his teeth on accident once in his clumsy haste. Neither of them is very experienced. At all. And it always proves to be an interesting experience since neither of them have any.

Carl makes another noise of surprise, this time a little louder, when he feels Ron try to dart his tongue into his mouth. His eyes fly open when it happens again less than 2 seconds later. He hastily pulls back, their mouths making an odd wet noise sort of similiar to the noise of a body hitting water, and stares at is boyfriend.

"Were you trying to slip me tongue?" He asks, face still flushed, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Uh...yes?" Ron replies uncertainly, face just as red. He goes to lean in again, slowly this time as he expects resistance of some sort. "Um, was I not supposed to?" He mumbles once their so close that their noses brush and their sharing breath.

Carl shrugs and closes his eyes again with a little smile. "No, I just wasn't expecting it."

Ron grins, tilting his head to the side and pressing their mouths together again. Before he can so much as begin to slither his tongue into Carl's mouth, he has Carl's tongue pressed up against the seam of his lips.

4.) Sign: *slash*

"Is this a sign that you like me?" Ron asks teasingly as he pulls the sheriff hat onto his head. "Cuz, I mean, this is like, your most prized possession and I've never seen you let someone else try it on."

Carl smiles and gives him a shove. "Stop being stupid and be glad I let you try it on, because I never will again."

Ron laughs, tilting the brim down and making finger guns. "I look cool right? Like I belong in one of those awesome shoot-em-up black and white cowboy movies?"

"No, you look like Sheriff Woody from Toy Story," Carl says with a snort, crossing his arms over his chest and snickering.

"Hey!" Ron says with a laugh, shoving his friend and pretending to shoot him with one of his finger guns, slowly and dramatically blowing off the smoke. "I bet you're just saying that because I wear it better than you."

Carl smiles and looks away to try and hide the blush on his face. "You look good even without my hat."

Ron's smile widens. "Ok, now that was totally a sign that you like me, right?!"

Carl neglects to answer him and instead continues marveling at the cement below them like it's something of beauty to be enthralled in.

5.) Slice:

Carl's knees ache as he kneels on the hard wooden floor, brow furrowed in frustration and arms numb from the cold. But he refuses to give up. He's NOT going to give up until he finds it because he's CERTAIN it's in here. It HAS to be, he wrote his goddamn name on it for fuckssake!

"Carl, we've been having problems with the electricity and such around here already, it's probably not so smart to keep the fridge open like that for twenty minutes straight," Michonne comments, glancing over at him from her spot on the sofa.

Carl just grunts and continues shifting through the same items over and over again: a head of soggy lettuce, a dozen eggs, a carton of half-drunk milk, a loaf of wheat bread, a bag of slightly yellow carrots, a pan of leftover lasagna, and several bruised up apples. He's been sifting through this food for almost 30 minutes now and he's sick of it but he REFUSES to give up searching.

"Carl, did you hear me?" Michonne asks, a little louder this time, looking slightly agitated. "Carl?"

"I'll close it in a minute," Carl mutters in reply, continuing his search.

Michonne quirks an eyebrow in interest and gets up to go see what he's looking for. "You know, most people are able to pick a snack in about 30 seconds, right?" she jokes as she pads across the room.

"I'm not looking for a snack," Carl replies stiffly. "Not just any snack anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"My cake. It's gone," Carl says curtly. "We had a leftover slice of chocolate cake that Carol made. I put it in a baggie and wrote my name on it in pen and stuck it in the fridge. Now it's gone."

"Tough luck, kiddo," Michonne says with a laugh. "That kind of stuff happens around here, your food is in just as much danger of being stolen inside these walls as it is outside them."

Carl frowns, slowly clambering to his feet and closing the refrigerator door. "But I wrote my name on it, that signifies that it's MINE."

Michonne just laughs again and shakes her head. "Not really, it was still a piece of cake and that's what someone saw when they looked through the fridge, not your name."

Carl looks over his shoulder at her, his frown deepening and his eyes narrowing into a semi-glare. "You ate it, didn't you?"

Michonne raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "Why do you think I ate it?"

"Because you just very calmly explained to me how the jungle rules of the kitchen work and it's making me pretty suspicious," Carl says, slouching over, his glare intensifying.

"I told you how it works because you seemed pretty naive about it, despite living with Daryl, who eats food off your plate every night at dinner when you turn your head, for almost 2 years now. I thought you knew, but you didn't so I enlightened you. I didn't eat your slice," Michonne says, pursing her lips and giving Carl a stony face of apathy.

"See?!" Carl exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger at her, full out glaring now.

"What?!"

"You don't even CARE that someone ate my cake! You don't care at all! That proves that you did it!"

"I don't care because it wasn't MY slice of cake!" MIchonne retorts.

"Now you just sound like a sociopath!"

"What, because I don't care that someone ate your cake?!"

"YES!"

"Oh, so you'd be a weeping mess of tears and...and emotions on the floor if someone had eaten my slice of cake?!"

"I'd at least say that I'm sorry for you!"

"I'm not sorry for you because it's a goddamn piece of cake and it wasn't mine!"

"You're not sorry because you made it yours and ate it!"

"I. Did. Not. Eat. Your. Stupid, Cake."

"Just admit it!"

"I didn't! I swear I didn't eat it!"

"You did! I know you did!"

"I didn't! God, Carl! What can I do to prove myself?! Just...vomit up everything I ate in the last 24 hours?!"

"Ahah! There you go! You just said last 24 hours! How'd you know I put my cake in the fridge within the last 24 hours if you didn't eat my slice?! Huh?!"

"Because Carol brought the fucking cake over last night after dinner! How the hell else would you have it before then?! You aren't cool enough to time travel!"

"I am too cool enough to time travel!"

"Nu-uh!"

"Yes I am!"

"What the hell are you two yelling about?!" Rick asks as he pops his head into the kitchen, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn up in annoyance.

"Michonne ate my-" the accusation falls dead from Carl's lips and falls to the floor with a splat like roadkill when he sees his dad holding a plate with a piece of half eaten chocolate in his left hand and a fork in his right.

Michonne turns to Carl with a little grin on her face and jabs her finger to her chest mouthing, 'not guilty'.

Carl groans and slouches back against the fridge. "Dad….can't you read?"

6.) Cold: *mild slash*

Cold. That's all Carl has felt in months.

Cold.

He wonders foggily if any other feelings will ever come back to him, flood through his veins and spread warmth through his joints and make his heart beat again without feeling like it's being pierced further by the thorn plunged inside of it.

Cold.

His hands shake all the time anymore, his eyes are always redder than the blood in the dreams that make him scream and cry like he's a scared a child again. No one says anything to him. No one knows what to say. He's lost so many people, they all have, but this is by far the biggest blow, the deepest wound in quite some time and words will only rub salt into it and make it fester.

Cold.

His father looks at him with pity, having had once experienced similiar heartbreak. His own heart shatters as he watches his son sit there like a corpse, staring at nothing and rubbing at his tear-stained face with scabbed hands. He tries to think of something soothing to say, but draws a blank every time. Rick has never been a man of words.

Cold

Everyone else looks the other way when they see Carl sitting at the little grave plot. They don't say anything. They know the kid has always been best off on his own, a lone wolf howling his grievances alone. Only Michonne and Enid ever come sit with him for awhile and try to comfort him in the best way they know how; by being there.

Cold.

Carl never cries over Ron. He can't bring himself to. It's too sudden, all of it. He still sometimes wakes up, expecting to roll over in bed and see him laying there, eyes closed and a peaceful smile spread across his face, hair toussled and sticking to his forehead in a matted mess. It makes Carl want to throw up now when he wakes up alone.

Cold.

Sometimes Carl still turns to tell Ron something and is greeted with air and a constriction of his throat. Sometimes he goes to grab his hand and is once again greeted with air and a pang in his side. It never ends. It never ends. Air becomes his friend and the pangs and pain become the outcome.

Cold.

Some days Carl pretends to believe in God and heaven again like he did when his mom died because it makes him feel again to think that Ron was reunited with his mom and brother again. He likes to envision in his mind's eye Jessie's beaming face as she holds her oldest son close to her and strokes his hair and Sam's excited laugh as he clings at his brother's legs and begs for him to teach him how to build bottle rockets and set them off. He likes to think Ron's happier now, in a better place where he doesn't have to miss his family anymore like the way Carl misses him. He wonders if it'd been him instead if Ron would sit at his grave every night and talk to him the way Carl does to him.

Cold.

Carl watches the sun rise alone now, but sometimes he still hears Ron's voice, commenting sadly on how the colors in the sky remind him of his mom's paintings. That's always when the mirage is ruined because Carl remembers that Ron doesn't get to be sad about his mom anymore. Carl sits alone and watches the sun set too. The first time he cries is when the sun goes down and he's sitting in front of the poorly constructed wooden cross alone, and he swears if he closes his eyes tight enough and wraps his arms around himself hard enough it feels like Ron's hugging him.

Cold.

Carl tells the grave he loves it again, tells the grave how much he wishes it were him instead. He still hears Ron's screams some nights and sees his flesh falling to the ground as they rip him apart. He still sees the blood pooling out of his veins and smearing across the remains of his skin like paint crawling across canvas. He wishes he could unsee it. He wishes they'd gotten him too.

Cold.

Carl remembers what it used to be like in the evenings when Ron was there. They'd listen to music so loud that his dad used to bitch at them to turn it down. They'd dance around the shared bedroom like goofballs, doing air guitar like Jimi Hendrix impersonators. Now Carl doesn't listen to music. It used to be fun but now it just hurts his ears.

Cold.

"One day it won't hurt so bad anymore," Carl remembers telling Ron. "One day you'll think back on them and it will sting like hell, but you won't want to knife yourself in the gut anymore."

It's been a year and Carl's still cold all over.

7.) Interference: *explicit content and slash*

"Shh, my dad's gonna hear us!" Carl hisses with a little giggle as Ron continues nipping at his earlobe and fumbling around with his belt.

Ron giggles too, all giddy and beyond excited. "No he won't, he's asleep!" he whispers with a crinkled nose before sloppily mushing his lips into Carl's cheek bone.

Carl squirms against the wall and laughs again, shoulder blades bashing off the wall like a bird's wings rattling around it's cage bars. His laughing just intensifies when Ron finally manages to undo his belt and unzip his jeans. Carl isn't sure why he always laughs whenever they get intimate, but he does. He always starts giggling like a looney in a funny farm, and to make it worse, Ron does too. They sound more like an episode of Beavis and Butthead than two people engaging in love making.

"I told you to shut up!" Carl hisses again with another crazy giggle as Ron starts tugging down his pants. The fact that Ron's hands are shaking too much to accomplish even that with ease is a little sad.

"I will shut up in a minute cuz it's rude to talk when your mouth's full," Ron replies with a slightly crazy smile. He snorts like a pig, resting his head against Carl's stomach as he chortles at his own joke.

Carl laughs too, biting down on his wrist to keep from making more noise than needed. "Did your mom teach you that, Ron?" he asks teasingly.

"No, my daddy did," Ron replies sarcastically, sending them both into another fit of supressed laughter.

"H-hurry up," Carl says, starting to squirm impatiently again as Ron's fingers rub circles on his hip bones. "Stop laughing your ass off and get a move on."

"Ok, ok, someone's impatient aren't they?" Ron says with a little giggle.

Carl giggles too, burying his hands in Ron's hair and tugging just to get a kick out of watching his boyfriend scowl up at him.

"Don't pull my hair, asshole," Ron says, scowling and giving him stink eye while continuing to giggle like a lunatic.

Carl sticks his tongue out at him and giggles harder. He accidentally let's out a shrieking laugh like a screeching owl when Ron reaches up and yanks at his arms, pulling him down with him. He squirms and kicks up against the wall as Ron starts suckling on his neck rather aggressively, sort of like a vampire. Carl voices the comparison, causing Ron to accidentally bite down too hard when his jaw clenches up with laughter. They sit there, both giggling and snorting on the floor like two hyenas. Tears of laughter roll down their cheeks in streams and Carl shrieks again when Ron's hand wraps around him and starts to move.

"Boys, I don't know what the hell is so funny but I'd appreciate it if you stopped laughing like you're about to piss yourselves at three in the morning!" Rick's voice grumbles through the walls.

Neither Carl nor Ron laugh at Mr. Grimes's interference. It's not amusing to them in the least.

8.) Uncertainty: * mild slash*

"Were you ever...unsure?" Enid asks.

"About what?" Carl asks, taking another sip from his can of Dr. Pepper and giving his friend a sideways glance.

Enid bashfully shrugs and looks down at their feet, dangling over the side of the roof. "You know….about being with Ron? Were you ever, like, a little iffy about it, unsure about it not working out or ruining you or him when one of you gets ripped apart?"

Carl doesn't even hesitate to shake his head. "No," he says with a shrug.

"Not even a little?" Enid questions.

"Nope. I didn't even think about the negatives, you know? I didn't see the end where one of us is being eaten alive or dies in some other horrific manner. I only saw him."

"How? I'm sorry but, how the hell did you not? Everytime Mik tells me he loves me or holds me or kisses me, I just see….see his demise, see myself getting hurt and broken and torn up and broken because I loved him. You've been out there too, you know what I mean when I say I've seen hell. I can't unsee it, it's stuck with me, you know? Part of who I am. How do you not see the end?"

"Because I love him," Carl replies simply, finishing of his can of soda. "I did think about that a little, like you just said, it's part of you after you lived it. But….I love him."

"I love Mik too but it's because I love him that I'm scared to be with him. I don't want him to be hurt when I die and I don't want to be hurt when he dies. It's simple as that."

Carl smiles. "I used to think like that," he admits, smiling over at his friend. "BUt it hurts a hell of a lot more, I hear, when they die without you telling them you love them."

Enid lets his words sink in, mulling them over and analyzing them under a microscope like a scientist.

"What will you do if he dies?" she asks.

"I'll keep loving him."

"What will he do if you die?"

"I can't really speak for him but I'd hope he'd do the same."

"So, you never were uncertain? Never?"

"No," Carl says. "I wasn't."

9.) Weapon:

"I'm still not a good shot," Ron laments as he watches Michonne practice her aim, shooting at the targets set up on the wall with her handgun.

Michonne smirks and looks over at him as another one of her shots whizzes past the bright red target. Another miss.

"I'm not either and I've been practicing a hell of a lot longer than you," she says, handing the gun over to him. "If that makes you feel any better."

Ron groans, his shot missing the target by a mile. "Not really," he mutters. "It just means that I can practice for the rest of my life and not improve at all."

Michonne smiles sympathetically at him as he passes the gun back to her. "That's one way to look at it," she admits, taking aim, squinting her left eye so tight that her forehead twitches.

Ron sighs, the bang ringing in his ears as Michonne's shot is off again, the bullet burying itself in the wooden peg holding up the target. "I hate that my shot sucks, it makes me feel….defenseless."

Michonne looks over her shoulder at him, her sympathetic smile turning a bit more cheeky. "I can't shoot worth shit and I sure as hell don't feel defenseless. You don't have to either."

Ron looks at her in confusion. "Wh-what? Well, of course you don't you're a survivor, you lived out there for years and are still here in one piece. I...well, I can't shoot and-"

"How do you think I survived out there without being a grade A gunslinger like some of my friends?" Michonne asks, cutting the boy off.

"Um…." Ron trails, not entirely sure how to answer. "You have good survival skills? I mean, I assume so anyway since you're, like, alive and all."

Michonne shakes her head. "I mean, how do you think I defended myself without a gun?"

"Um…..your sword thing?" Ron guesses, remembering the samuri looking sword that he'd spotted hanging over the Grimes's mantel place a few weeks ago. According to Carl, Michonne could wield it better than a ninja and was more lethal with it than one too.

Michonne laughs. "It's a Kitana, but yes. So, maybe guns aren't your thing, no big deal. Sure, you should learn how to work one like I did for do-or-die situations, but you can have something else with you that you have a better handle on. Carol's better with knives than she is guns and Daryl always uses his crossbow when he can. Their are other weapons."

Ron brightens up a little at her words. "You really think I might be better with a knife or a machete?"

Michonne nods. "Sure. Tell you what, let's head down to the supply house and borrow a machete from Rosita and get you some practice with one, see how you do."

Ron nods and takes the gun from Michonne, tucking it back in place in the holster that Mr. Grimes got for him a few weeks back. He follows Michonne to the supply house, trying to keep the excited bounce out of his step. He's really hoping he finds another weapon that feels more natural in his hands.

10.) Tiptoe: *slash*

Carl likes making out, he likes being kissed and kissing and feeling Ron's lips crushed up against his in that awkward way that he passes off for erotic since he has absolutely no frame of reference. He likes running his fingers through Ron's hair and he likes the way Ron's face flushes and the way they both giggle like two little kids stealing pop rocks and cookies from the kitchen. He likes the way Ron holds him close to him and the way Ron's tongue feels pushed up with his, wrestling around in the cavern on their conjoined mouths. He likes the way he can smell Ron and the way Ron nuzzles his nose into his face when they pause to breath like how an affectionate cat nuzzles into it's owner's side/ He likes the way he feels loved and the way he feels when expressing his own adoration.

No, Carl really, really likes kissing Ron.

The only thing he doesn't like is that Ron is so much taller than him, so much that Ron either has to bend down a little and crane his neck over or Carl has to stand up on his tiptoes if he wants to initiate it.

I hope these were half decent. Feel free to leave feedback or tell me which was your favorite and why. Whatever. I might make more.


	2. Chapter 2

11.) Horseback:

Carl locks his fingers through the jagged chain link fence, leaning forward and watching with wide eyes full of awe.

He'd never tell Michonne, never in a million years grow the balls to look her in the eye and tell her how graceful and skilled she looks while riding on her horse, kitana raised above her head like a knight does with his sword when riding into battle. He'd never tell her, she's still an outsider to him and his dad is distrustful of her, despite her bringing them the baby formula vital to his newborn sister's survival. He knows not to talk to her or even to look at her for too long or go near her, he knows not to both because his family doesn't trust her yet and because he's learned not to get attached to anyone anymore but…..he can't help but love watching when she's on guard duty. He loves watching her horse, Flame, gallop around the prison yard. He loves watching Michonne take swift and powerful swings downward, the blade of her kitana cleanly slicing through the living dead's skulls and sending a rain of blood and brain matter showering down onto the dead clumps of yellow grass. He loves watching her like a child watching a superhero movie, feeling a strange alien sense of admiration and respect. He always makes sure to offer to clean the pig pens around noon just so he can hang around the fence and watch Michonne, sitting upon her horse like one of Sir Arthur's knights, and just as bold.

If only Carl realized that Michonne sees him watching her and that she purposefully puts on a bit of a show just to see the boy's excited eyes and enthralled face pressed up against the chain link so flush that when he pulls away there are grid marks on his cheeks.

If only he knew that as much as he mentally compares her to a knight, she will slowly become his knight in shining armor quite literally, being the person to save him from completely losing faith and falling in the dark by himself forever.

If only he knew he'd become her knight too, saving her from the demons of her past and by giving her someone to fight for. Giving her an ounce of motivation and a reason to live.

12.) Connection: *slash*

"So…..you and Enid seem to really have….clicked," Ron observes, trying his best to keep the tetchy tone out of his voice that's storming around in his chest.

"Hmm?" Carl asks, opening his tired eyes and looking over at his friend.

"Enid," Ron repeats, the tone starting to creep into his voice despite his best efforts to suppress it. It's hard enough to say it once, much less twice. "You guys seem to have made a pretty deep connection."

"Why do you say that?" Carl asks.

Ron can't fight the frown from etching itself onto his lips. "You guys have been hanging out a lot lately….talking and stuff, I dunno. I just see you guys talking by the main gate a ton and I hear her try to persuade you to go over the walls with her almost every day. Enid doesn't usually...talk to people. Just wondering what's up is all I guess….I mean, don't tell me if it's too personal or something," Ron says in a tone that screams 'if you don't tell me I'll just ask again 20 minutes later'.

"Uh….it's really nothing," Carl mutters casually with a little shrug, closing his eyes again. "She's just…..we have an understanding I guess. I know what it's like to be out there and all, I know what it's like to….you know, be in the aftermath and feel like the collateral damage even though you're alive. It's just a….a bit of an understanding."

Ron's frown deepens. "So….You guys talk about your lives before you got here?" he asks, tone slightly tense.

It's a good thing Carl is socially retarded and doesn't catch his friend's pissy tone. "Yeah, basically. We talk. It's sorta nice to just….talk about it."

Ron recoils slightly sitting, up and looking down at the smaller boy with a slightly venomous look. Carl's never told him about what happened to him before he got to Alexandria and he's been friends with Ron longer than he has Enid. Dammit, he spends twice as much time with Ron as he does Enid too. In Ron's mind, this justifies that, hell, Carl should be crying to HIM about what haunts him at night and reliving his past horrors with HIM, not Enid.

"So….you guys have a connection."

"You could call it that I guess," Carl says with another shrug that just further pisses Ron off.

"A pretty special one since neither of you talk to anyone else about it. Enid's never breathed a word to me about her life before she got here."

Carl's fuzzy sleep deprived brain DOES manage to pick up on the slightly sour tone in his friend's voice this time, but he interprets it all wrong. "Ron, dude," he starts, opening his eyes and making eye contact with the boy hovering over him. "Enid only talks to me because she's a little closed off and doesn't think anyone else will understand. It's not that she's closer to me than you, she just thinks I'll get it since I lived it too. Don't sweat it, she always talks about how cool she thinks you are and what a sweet person you've been to her for putting up with all her mood swings and shit. She really likes you, ok? Don't be stupid, if you like her, go for it."

Ron just stares down at Carl in silence for a moment, brow furrowing in what Carl thinks is confusion. After a few awkward seconds, a shy smile flickers onto Ron's face.

"I'm not being stupid, you are," he says quietly.

Carl rolls his eyes. "No, I'm not being stupid, you are. Man, if you like her, just-"

He's cut off when Ron leans over and quickly presses their lips together, the kiss barely lasting a fourth of a second. It's still enough to make Carl's heart stop though.

"No, you're being stupid," Ron mutters again, dropping back down beside him.

13.) Orphanage:

"Have you ever noticed that Alexandria is kind of like an orphanage?" Enid asks as her and her two friends watch the new tiny band of survivors slowly enter through the main gate and get frisked by Spencer. A teen and a younger child who seem to be unaccompanied besides each other and a middle aged man who looks nothing like them, his skin tones and facial features not even remotely resembling either of theirs, file through and look around them at the sturdy buildings and civilized people making their way up and down the streets with a look of hope in their eyes.

"What do you mean?" Ron asks.

"I mean….so many kids, myself included, end up in here without a single blood relative left. It's a collection of orphaned kids living in the same community," Enid explains, a rather apathetic look on her face, signifying she's in one of her dark, 'there's no fucking hope we should all just slit our wrists' kind of moods. Ron and Carl easily sense this and know to tread lightly.

"True, true. But so many kids like that end up forming emotional bonds with the people around them and end up as part of a weird oddly assembled family," Carl points out.

He instantly regrets it as Enid looks over at them with a rather murderous look. "It doesn't change the fact that they're still without their original parents and siblings. Still without aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins. You act like you just...replace them. Like new people suddenly just….poof! Make the void go away!"

Carl shakes his head, trying to be patient with her. "I'm not saying that at all, I'm just saying that it's not all doom and gloom, ok? You don't replace the people you lost, you never get them back or anything or forget, but you make new connections to people."

Ron nods. "Yeah, he's just saying you still feel love and care about other people. He's not saying anything about replacing anyone, calm down E."

Enid huffs out, watching silently as the new residents of Alexandria are escorted around on a little tour of the town by Spencer. She crosses her arms over her chest and lets out another angry little sigh.

"E," Ron mutters quietly, hand twitching as he debates reaching out and touching her. "Are you ok?"

"I'm just sick of being sad," Enid mutters, lowering her head and glaring at her sneakered feet. It's the best example of 'if looks could kill' Ron and Carl have ever seen. They don't say anything, not wishing to have their heads torn off and throw over the wall, and just continue watching Alexandria's newest orphans take their tour.

14.) Born:

Carl's heard some people, people whom seem much older and wiser and experienced than him, talk about experiences in their lifetime that were both terrible and amazing. The worst thing and best thing ever to happen to them at once. Things that tasted bitter as pills but sweet as sugar. Things that stung like a bastard but left a warm afterglow.

Most kids Carl's age don't have the foggiest clue about this concept. They simply see black and white and can't comprehend how something can hurt and spark hope at the same time. It just sounds like confusion to them, like jumbled up emotions and a stupid contradiction. Even nowadays, with life being nothing but a bleak struggle to fill your lungs with air and keep your head attached to your neck, some people don't understand it. They actually are more adamant on how it doesn't make any sense. They just see the death and pain and the hope and love, clearly divided by a wall, on one side constructed of rotting and bloody corpses of the ones they loved and on the other constructed of lovely and sturdy brick adorned with vines and roses. Black and white, white and black.

But Carl's world has slowly all become a pragmatic grey.

He sees the pain, but the pain makes him stronger, thickens his skin and advances his armor. He sees the friendship and love, feels it and receives it. But he knows, unfortunately, that it gives him something to lose. It's grey. It's all grey.

Carl's most important memory, like everything else in his life, is grey. It gives him mixed feelings, but all the feelings are stronger than heroin and make his gut clench and his head swirl with shit. It makes him want to cry and smile and scream and giggle all at once.

Carl's most important memory is of when his sister Judith was born. Of when his mother bleed to death after being cut open like a cantaloupe and had her intestines flopped around her on the filthy floor and when Maggie, with the quivering hands of an alcoholic, lifted a pink tiny creature out of his mother's abdomen and clutched it to herself like it was the most precious thing in the universe.

And it was.

Even while gagging on death, Carl knew that. He could see it in the infant's tiny black eyes and hear it in the baby's wailing. He stared down at his mother, the lady whom had birthed him and cared for him, protected him and loved him, picked him up from school everyday and tucked him into bed every night after kissing his forehead and telling him that she loved him's still face. Tears winded down his cheeks before his face set to stone and he looked upon his new baby sister.

He was the caregiver now. It was his role.

The pink baby flashed and stuck out in his grey world.

15.) Knit: *mild slash*

"What is this?" Carl asks dubiously, giving his friend an inquiring glance before looking back down at the parcel placed in his calloused hands moments before.

"Seriously Ron, what the fuck is this?"

Ron, giddy and excited, NOT per the norm at all and freaking Carl out a bit, bounces on the balls of his feet and watches the brunette with eager eyes.

"Just open it," he insists quietly, quivering a bit as Carl steps aside and let's him in through the doorway.

"I'm confused, you show up out of nowhere, not that I don't like seeing you or anything, and give me a present. Why?"

Ron shrugs."Um….happy birthday?"

"I don't know what the hell the date is or how old I am."

"Merry Christmas?"

"Once again, not sure what the date is but I can kinda tell by the leaves colors and the breeze that it's only fall."

"Happy….Thursday."

"Is it Thursday?"

"I don't know, just open it!" Ron insists, losing patience.

Carl laughs a little but does as he's told and unwraps the sloppily applied wrapping paper and opens the box. Ron watches him with wide eyes and nervously licks his lips, hands shaking.

"Oh, wow, is this a….is this a scarf?" Carl asks, grabbing the long train of slightly fuzzy yarn-woven blue and black out of the little box.

Ron nods his head rapidly and smiles like a doofus. "Yeah, I made it for you. I've….uh...• his cheeks start to burn up. "I've been working on it in my free time for a few weeks now. It took me awhile to like...perfect it for you since I'm not that great at knitting. You um….you mentioned being chilly a few weeks back and I figured this could help keep you warm."

Carl smiles shyly up at him, wrapping the scarf around his neck three times despite it being itchy enough to leave a rash. "Thank you," he mutters, his own cheeks turning redder than his poor neck. It's the thought that counts anyway, right? This is honestly one of the sweetest things anyone's ever done for him. He's not sure how to react. He awkwardly pulls Ron in for a hug, enjoying feeling the weight of Ron's arms around his midsection.

He'd much rather keep himself warm by enveloping himself in Ron's arms than by wearing this monstrous scarf.

16.) Credit:

"You know what I was worried about before...this?" Glenn asks, motioning around them at the gate walls and beyond to the dense forest infested by walkers.

"What?" Carl asks, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity.

"My credit card debt." Glenn admits, leaning against the railing and looking down at the treetops from his lookout position. "I was worried about my stupid credit card debt."

Carl laughs a little, a strangely forced sounding chuckle, then looks down at his feet and flushes. Glenn picks up on the boy's odd sounding laugh and looks over at him.

"What?"

"Well…" Carl drawls, still looking down at his feet. "I uh….I don't really understand how credit cards worked and all. I was only 12 so…..I was more worried about Pokemon cards instead, you know?"

Glenn laughs easily, shaking his head. "It's ok. Credit cards were a lot like….little plastic pieces of magic that came back to kick your ass later."

Carl looks up to give his friend a very confused look. "So….credit cards are kinda like….reverse Sour Patch Kids?"

Glenn laughs again, smiling nostalgically as he recalls mentally all the times he proudly slapped that piece of rectangular plastic down on store counters, thinking he was fine but was truly just digging himself a deeper hole to climb out of. "Sort of. Just….be glad you didn't have to deal with credit cards, ok? Consider yourself lucky."

Carl rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure credit cards are ten times worse than living dead cannibals."

17.) Mean *slash*:

Carl has never been good at communicating his thoughts or ideas. He's especially shitty at expressing his feelings. Words just never come to him like they do most people, never just avalanche out of his mouth like a whirlwind, unbridled and sincere. They are always too forced, too articulate, or too jumbled and no one is able to decipher them and understand what he means.

Almost no one really is able to pick up on what he means. Ever. They just understand a third of it, understand what they HEAR. It's frustrating beyond belief to Carl, and sometimes it makes him want to scream.

Ron, like just about everyone else Carl has close ties with, THINKS he understands Carl. He truly believes he's one of the only human beings who knows what the hatted boy is trying to say, what meaning he's trying to infer and what point he's trying to get across. But Ron, also like just about every one of Carl's close tied companions, doesn't REALLY get what the kid is trying to say at all and comes to the incorrect conclusion 90% of the time. His Carl translation is way off the mark.

So whenever Carl swallows enough of his nerves and fear to tell Ron that he loves him, Ron just smiles, pats him on the back, and tells Carl he 'loves' him too.

It kills Carl a little bit inside every time it happens.

18.) Surprise: *sexual content*

Rick Grimes has experienced several daunting surprises in his lifetime, from marvelous ones to dreadful ones and every kind imaginable in between. He's had the shock of finding his family after the beginning of the end of the world. He's learnt of his daughters birth and wife's death in the same millisecond of time. He's found out people he thought to be dead are alive and people he thought to be alive are dead. He's learnt that some people he considered trustworthy are deceives and people he thought to be rotten are trustworthy and sincere.

Rick Grimes isn't easily shaken anymore, he's had too many surprises and shocks in his life to be. He is pretty firmly grounded and hard to catch of his guard.

At least that's what he thought before he opened his son's bedroom door one evening and found him and his 'friend', Ron Anderson, twined up together on the bed, a cumbersome ball of limbs and hormones, rutting against one another like two stray dogs in an alleyway, all dis coordinated and clumsy, their shirts still on and sticking to their backs like a second skin and their flies unzipped to increase the skin on skin contact. Rick has the feeling, after the numb shock wears off, that if he hadn't just walked in the skin to skin ratio would've increased and gotten more heated and serious.

Carl opens his eyes and sees, over Ron's left shoulder, his dad, pale and unmoving in the doorway, his jaw practically unhinged and his eyes wider than dinner plates. He lets out a horrified shriek, feeling his blood run cold and his heart jump up into his throat like a frog. Ron jumps at the sudden sound of distress and accidentally bites down harder on Carl's collar bone than intended, leaving a bright red mark engraved with little dents.

"D-dad!" Carl splutters with a wince as his boyfriend's teeth snag on his starts squirming around on his back, struggling to quickly tuck himself back into his jeans and push Ron off of him.

"Mr. Grimes?!" Ron whisper-yells, whriling around and blanching when he sees Carl's dad is indeed hovering in the doorway, looking just as surprised as he and Carl are. Ron jumps off the smaller boy and hastily shoves himself back in his jeans and zips himself up, his face looking sickly pale. His hands shake and he can't bring his eyes up from the ugly brown carpet.

Rick feels his cheeks grow hot as he slowly backs out of the room. "Uh...um….uh," he stutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose and bowing his head to try and mask his face. "Um...I'll just...head on back downstairs…."

"Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to-"

"Yeah, M-Mr. Grimes, I swear, I d-d-didn't th-think y-y-you were gonna, I m-mean I shouldn't 'ave b-been, b-but I-I really a-am sorry a-and-"

Ron's nervous rambling is cut off when Rick awkwardly slams the bedroom door closed and hurriedly heads back down the steps and retreats to the living room. He flops onto the couch and buries his head in his hands, groaning. It'll take him awhile to get those images out of his tortured head and to recover from that surprise.

19.) Ring:

"Do you think...do you think she'll like this one?" Glenn nervously asks, holding his palm out.

Beth just giggles and shakes her head. "Glenn, I'm sure she'll love it."

"I know I know, but….let's say it's not the end of the world and we have way more options. Is this a ring that your sister would like?" He asks as Beth daintily takes the ring in her index and pinky finger and picks it up to examine it. It's a simple silver band, originally it had been caked in blood and guts, but Glenn cleaned it the best he could and wiped it down with rubbing alcohol to ensure it's as perfect as he can get it.

"She'd love it," Beth says, shooting the Asian a sweet reassuring smile. "Even if she had a choice of a thousand other rings with big shiny diamonds and pearls and golden bands that glimmer, she'd want this one."

Glenn can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her claims. He knows Beth tends to be a bit too idealistic and a helpless romantic but this is a little extreme, even for her. "She'd still want this chinsee plain one compared to a pure gold one topped with a pearl attached by an ivory base or one with a huge diamond or ruby? You're serious? She'd still want….this one?"

Beth nods and places the ring back in Glenn's palm. "Definitely," she replies breezily.

"Really?" Glenn presses.

Beth laughs. "Of course! Because YOU gave it to her, stupid! My sister can be a little too prideful and extremely over protective and hot headed, but she is not the least bit vain. It has nothin' to do with what the ring looks like to her, Glenn. She just wants you to show her you care by wantin' to marry her. The rings such a little thing in the grand scheme of things, especially now with, you know, the end of the world and all."

Glenn can't help but smile a little shyly. "I know, I just….."

"Want it to be as perfect as possible?"

"Yeah," he admits sheepishly.

"Glenn, you're gettin' married in a prison yard by my daddy with an audience of walking corpses. It's gonna be perfect, just...don't get all hung up on it, ok? I'm honestly a little shocked you took the time and effort to snag a walker's hand in the chainlink fence and get two engagement rings."

Glenn nods, taking her advice to heart. "You're right, I was just….I don't know. I'm just nervous."

Beth smiles at him and folds his fingers up around the ring. "You'll be fine. This is gonna be...beyond perfect! Trust me!"

Glenn nods, looking down at his folded up hand. "I know it will," he says, lips stretching into a grin.

20.) Assembly:

"We have to do something!" Sasha hisses sharply.

"Like what?! We can't get out, it's locked up tighter than a nun's underwear drawer," Eugene replies rather calmly, leaning against the wall and looking up at the metal ceiling of the train car.

"But we gotta make a plan!" Sasha insists crossly, taking a few steps to her right. "We can't just sit here like defenseless cowards!"

"She's right," Abraham agrees. "We're sitting ducks right now, we gotta be prepared for when they come back. We need a real good plan."

"Agreed," Rick says with a stiff nod. "We gotta prepare for when those bastards rear their heads back in here. We need to be ready to strike."

"We need to make some make-shift weaponry," Michonne says. "We can use the loose pipes on the walls and undo our shoelaces and tie them into thick whips to choke and strike with."

"I have some spare knives in my boots they didn't get," Rosita says, kneeling down to fetch said concealed weapons.

"Good, good. That's a real good start," Rick encourages, starting to pace around the train car like a restless lion waiting for it's prey.

"When we hear their footsteps we can huddle up against the sides of the walls right by the opening of the door," Daryl suggests, illustrating his idea by swiftly sliding up against the wall, pressing his right shoulder up against it and leaving his opposite arm in the optimal position to throw a hook.

"Yeah, that's a good plan," Maggie says with a nod, taking a knife that Rosita offers to her.

"If you manage to fight our way out of here we need a plan on where to run and we need to keep the armed guards stationed around this cannibal camp in mind," Eugene points out.

"When we get out we'll take off to our left, back where we came from," Rick says. "We ran through there earlier and know the layout better, we've got a better chance that way."

"It'll make a racket when we take out the people who come into the train car for us though, armed people will hear and come after us," Glenn points out, attempting to rip a loose ascew pipe off the wall with immense difficulty.

"He's right. They'll be chargin' at us, firin'. We won't stand a chance with pewny ragtag weapons like these up against AKs and even just simple handguns," Abraham says.

Daryl nods. "We need to duck behind the nearest building instead of just runnin' right out into the open, out into gun fire."

"Yeah, we'll weave behind the buildings," Maggie agrees. "The entrance is to the North of where we are now so…."

"So we just keep going northward," Bob says with a nod.

"Once we get to the gate we'll probably have to try and duck into that entry building we passed through on our way in and try and get a few guns. I don't think we'll be able to get out without a few, I have a funny feeling there'll be a standoff of sorts," Rosita adds.

"You're right, we should try to get back into that building and get a few guns. We don't need to risk heavily arming ourselves though, Rick, Carl, and I buried a bag out in the woods a few miles from here that has weaponry and ammo in it for us once we get out," Michonne says.

"Which direction did you folks come from?" Abraham asks.

"West," Rick answers. "So once we get outta here we'll head west to get the bag."

"Do you think we might get lucky and the people who come to get us that we'll be able to take out by surprise will be armed?" Tara, a stranger and newcomer to almost everyone in the train car along with Eugene, Abraham, and Eugene, asks.

"Maybe, maybe," Bob says. "Probably have at least a handgun on them."

"Yeah and we'll obviously salvage that," Daryl says.

"Alright then, it's a pretty decent plan. We'll get to work preparing. Make anything in here that you possibly can a weapon. Don't be afraid to get creative. When those bastards poke their heads in here we'll huddle up against the wall and take them by surprise, salvage any weapons of them that we can. Then we'll bolt across the opening as fast as we can to the building opposite of this train car. We'll avoid confrontation as much as possible, ducking around the buildings since we don't stand a chance in hell up against heavy artillery. We go north, towards the gate. We'll attempt to make a quick run through the entry building, but not if it's crawling with cannibals. Once we reach the gate we shouldn't have that much difficulty scaling the wall or forcin' the gate open as long as we're speedy," Rick says with a single solemn nod.

Carl stares at his dad and then slowly scans the room, admiring each of these adults huddled together, seemingly to fearlessly devise this grand escape plan from Terminus, a so called haven that turned out to be a hell. He thought he was going to die today for sure when he heard the screaming echoing from the other train cars as he was loaded like livestock into this one, but now, now as he looks at these faces surrounding him, most of them familiar and fond in his memory but some fresh and new and yet to be discovered, he has hope. Real hope for getting out alive, even though their plan is by no means perfect or ingenious.

He can't imagine a better group of people to be called together into assembly in this little train car that used to reek of death but now reeks of shared breath and sick anticipation.


	3. Chapter 3

21.) Evil:

Evil, to Carl, always seemed like an excessive word, a descriptor saved for the nasty and terrible villains that haunt history like Adolph Hitler or live in grim old wives tales like the lake monsters that grasp onto kids' ankles and drag them under the surface to perish. Evil never seemed like a word Carl would associate with other people, he used to naively think that people were usually too civilized and...well...human to do such horrid things to deserve the adjective.

That was before. That was previous to the Governor's attacks or the time he witnessed his childhood idol, Shane, try to kill his father in cold blood. That was before he watched people turn on one another and quite literally stab each other in the back. Before he saw decapitations and betrayals and fatal stabbings and other gory demises.

Now evil is one of the first adjectives that pops into Carl's head when he thinks about the human race. Humans, he's realized, are nothing but evil when the stakes are high.

22.) Observer: *slash*

Daryl isn't a big talker. He's not the most conversational guy and he never really has been. Some people just assume Daryl doesn't say much because he doesn't have much to say. They assume he's either just too dumb and undereducated to fully comprehend or notice the events unfolding around him or that he's just not interested in other people or their affairs.

Both of these things couldn't be more false.

Daryl isn't even entirely sure himself why he doesn't say much, but he knows so much more than he lets onto. He's actually quite the observer, and he knows about almost everything that's going on in all of his friend's lives, even things they think are secret and unbeknownst to anyone.

For example, Daryl knows that Maggie is pregnant even though she has yet to tell anyone, even Glenn. He knows because of the way she smiles now, all radiant and hopeful, the same way he can remember Lori smiling after she'd come to terms with her pregnancy. He knows by the way she walks too and the way she subconsciously rubs her abdomen sometimes while sitting down. He understands why she hasn't told anyone, he knows the chances of a miscarriage are pretty high in the first 3 months and he knows those chances are even higher in her situation since she has no access to the right kind of medical help.

Daryl knows that Rick has nightmares almost every night. He sees Rick walk out onto the pristine little front porch of his house every morning around 3 AM and pace back and forth, running his fingers through his disorderly hair and grumbling nervously to himself. He knows what he dreams about, he knows he dreams about his children being ripped apart and eaten alive or shot down in a hail of bullets or being decapitated by a swinging machete. Daryl knows what he dreams about because if Daryl were in his shoes, that's what he'd dream about too.

Daryl knows that Rosita and Spencer hook up, he catches Spencer shuffling out of her home around 8 AM with a dejected look on his face. Daryl also knows how much Spencer loves Rosita since he's always trying to make the relationship real, continuously putting up with her mean-spirited antics towards him. Daryl knows Rosita wants to love him but that she's still hung up on Abraham by the way she treats Spencer. He knows she's all torn up and can't get it together for anything right now.

Daryl knows Sasha cries about her brother every morning before her shift, he's seen her huddled under the gazebo by herself, sobbing into her folded arms. Daryl knows that Eugene feels inadequate despite his superior intellect. He knows Tara is scared shitless of losing Denise because she's so inexperienced with the outside and does everything in her capability to keep her girlfriend inside the walls. He knows Carol hates it inside the walls despite being able to fit in so effortlessly. He knows she thinks these people in Alexandria are naive and dumb, like cattle being led off to slaughter. He knows that Carl and that Ron Anderson kid are together. He's seen the way they look at each other and he's caught the latter cupping the other's face in a way too intimate to be considered friendly. He knows Rick has no clue though as he hasn't said anything about it and because of the way Carl and Ron sneak around together behind the scenes. Daryl knows they love each other, but he doesn't say anything, not wanting to skunk them out. Daryl knows Michonne is only hopeful for Alexandria working out because she's afraid of being helpless again. He knows she wonders if she can do it out there again and make it.

Daryl knows a lot. He is all too aware of what goes on around him, out in the open and behind the curtain. He's the observational one, everyone else is just too blind to see it.

24.) Alcoholic:

The "A" word always stings Ron's lips and tongue like a slap across the face. It makes him wince as if in physical pain and curl into himself. The sad part though is that Ron knows it's true. He's very aware that calling his dad an alcoholic is by no means an overstatement. He knows it's true. But even though it's true doesn't make it sting any less.

25.) Future:

"What do you see when you envision the future?" Eugene asks casually, not looking up from his Conroy novel.

"Hmm?" Rosita asks, caught off guard as she dozes next to her acquaintance on the sofa.

"The future, Miss Espinosa. What do you think about when you ponder the future."

Rosita opens her mouth to answer, but quickly snaps it shut, her brain buzzing blankly and no answer, sincere or sarcastic, coming to her.

"Um….I guess I see….the same thing that's happening now but with different people and different places. Why?"

"Just curious," Eugene replies simply, turning the page.

"Well, what do you see?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"I mean exactly as I said, there is no inferential meaning behind my words."

Rosita sits up straighter and scootches towards the intellectual. "You mean….you think this really is the end? You think in say...twenty years the whole human race will be extinct and everyone here, in this camp with us, will be dead?"

"Yes, that's what I meant," Eugene says, briefly glancing up at the hispanic woman sitting beside him. "But I don't think the extinction of man will be as rapid as twenty years I'd say….more like fifty years."

Rosita stares at him with the narrowed eyes of a scientist observing a denatured enzyme before clicking her tongue and slowly saying, "I don't think humankind is going to be wiped out. I don't think this is the end. Don't get me wrong, this is totally a mass extinction type scenario, but….I think we'll pull through."

"Why? I'd say by this point a little more than half of the population is gone and there's no end in sight for the virus nor is there anybody left, as far as we're aware, to study said virus and have that eureka moment."

"I just...I have hope," Rosita says with a firm nod. "And you should to. I think in twenty years, this community will have grown and partnered up with several other communities to make something kind of like the states we had before. I think we will have re-established a type of government and be holding elections. I think we'll open public schools to educate our children. I think we'll open hospitals between towns and organize labs to study the virus and other less-pressing ailments and diseases. I think it's only going to go up from here."

"Well, you're quite idealistic, aren't you?" Eugene replies flatly.

"Well, you asked what I thought of when I thought about the future, and that's what I think about," Rosita says with a little huff, crossing her arms over her chest and slouching over again.

26.) Pulse: *slash*

Ron sits up, head spinning round and round. His vision is blurry and his nose is bleeding, pools of thick red liquid smearing down his cheeks and lips. He coughs, throat burning and tasting of metal, as he clambers to his feet.

"Shit," he mutters as he hacks up a combination of spit and blood. "Shit."

With wobbly legs, he stumbles through the debris and remains of the buildy, nearly tripping over chunks of drywall and shielding his eyes with his bruised hands to keep the drizzle of dust out of his eyes.

He wonders how long he was unconscious for as he passes by shards of glass from a window splayed across the floor, glinting like the building's dying tears. He peers out the hole in the wall where the window used to be and stares at the blood red sky, watching the glowing yellow orb start to sink below the horizon. It was high noon when the group entered the abandoned grocery store, now the sun is setting. Ron, foggily, does the math and rationalizes that he must've been out for at least four hours. He looks around at the remains of the building in the dying light and wonders if anyone made it. His gut clenches painfully and his eyes burn.

"Hello?" he horsley shouts. "Hello? Guys? Guys? Anyone hear me?" his throats starts to scream louder than his voice in protest, but he keeps shouting anyway as he staggers through the store. He keeps one hand on his holster just in case he encounters any walkers.

"Hello? Hello? Can anybody hear me?" he gets more and more worried as he stumbles through the wreckage, wondering anxiously if everyone died. He, Carl, Daryl, Glenn, Michonne, and Sasha all came into the building together, trying to accumulate some food and supplies for cleaning out wounds (rubbing alcohol, bandages, needle and thread for stitching). It was supposed to be an easy run, no complications in store.

And the fucking roof of the store collapsed on them.

"Ron? I-is that you?" a familiar voice croaks.

"Yeah!" Ron shouts excitedly, stumbling a little faster in the direction of the voice.

"Oh thank god, I thought...I thought you all died," Sasha breathes. Her form slowly comes into Ron's line of vision like a ghost aparating out of thin air. Ron sees through the dust that she's just as bruised up and bloody as him, standing there with one hand clenched on the hilt of her gun and the other onto a bottle of isopropyl.

"Is there anyone else with you?" She asks eagerly.

Ron just shakes his head, causing his head to spin faster and his vision to blur again.

"Ron?! Sasha?!" Glenn yells from a few yards away. He runs over to them, blood running in thick streams down his forehead.

"You look like hell," Ron feels his lips as he says it.

Glenn forces a good natured grin and replies. "So do you."

The three of them amble along in the dust bowl, shouting and searching and scouring the area. They find Daryl after a few minutes. He's got a broken leg and he uses Glenn and Sasha's shoulders as make-shift crutches. Michonne is unconscious still, her body splayed out in a field of broken shelving units and cans of baked beans. Ron shakes her shoulder gently until her eyelids flutter open. It never even crosses his mind when he finds her that she might be dead, as he can see her side rising and falling in a beautiful reassuring rhythm.

"Where's Carl?" is the first thing out of her mouth.

Ron blanches and shakes his head. "We haven't found him….but I'm sure we will."

He says it just as much for her sake as he does his own. He doesn't even want to think about returning to Alexandria without Carl Grimes by his side, he he doesn't intend to quit looking until he finds him, dead or alive.

Michonne is weak, fatigued and injured. She can't go very far and everyone else grows tired too, their wounds slowing them down and depleting them of their energy. Sasha suggests they go find back to the parking lot (or what remains of it) and find the van. Ron and Michonne both quickly refuse, saying they aren't leaving the rubble until they locate Carl.

They keep searching and searching until the moon hangs high in the cloudy sky. Still no sign of Carl and everyone's dead on their feet.

"I…" Daryl stalls. "I think we would've found 'im by now if there was somethin' left to find…" he mutters gravely. He hates saying it, it hurts him just as much as the collapsed ceiling hurt his leg.

Sasha slowly nods in agreement. "I don't think…"

Glenn thickly swallows, quickly blinking his eyes and sniffling. He wipes the back of his hand across his bloody ashen face and nods. "We should g-go."

"No!" Michonne argues, leaning heavily on Ron for support. "We need to find him, we can't just abandon him here! All by himself? Hurt?"

"Michonne…..he's gone," Sasha says gently, knowing how much the kid meant to her. "I know it's hard but we can search all day and dig through this crap and we either won't find anything or we'll find a corpse."

"No, we won't. We're gonna find him," Ron insists, his voice cracking and heavy with tears. "He's in here somewhere and-"

"What's left of 'im is here," Daryl mutters with a sad shake of his head. "Ron, this is just as hard for me, but the kid's…" Daryl's voice cracks too and he looks down at the dusty floor. He never bothers to finish his sentence.

"Just give me ten more minutes!" Ron insists desperately. "That's it, I promise, ten more minutes!"

No one argues and Michonne and Ron quickly hobble off, desperately searching the room like a greedy man searching for his fat wallet. They whip their heads around and shout and holler louder than a fog horn. At one point Michonne drops to her knees and starts sifting through some of the piles of rubble, desperate, desperate, desperate, desperate….

"I….I found him!" Michonne shrieks, a shifted piece of a plastic display case revealing a jean clad leg. "I found him!"

Everyone rushes over as Michonne struggles to move more of the debris off the lifeless and limp body buried underneath. Ron drops to his knees and helps her, his hands further scarring and bleeding as they get cut on the sharp edges of plaster and splintered off pieces of plastic.

"Oh god," Glenn whimpers, tears streaking down his bloody face. "Oh god…."

Daryl shakes his head, face scrunching up and eyes becoming wet. Sasha looks away and winces, her face turning pink and her hand flying up to cover her mouth. They all expected it, but it's much worse when you're confronted with it.

"No, no, no, no, no," Michonne mutters hurriedly, crawling closer to the corpse and grabbing it. "No, no, no, no. C'mon Carl, c'mon. You've survived through worse things, c'mon."

Ron crawls over to him to as Michonne presses her index finger and ring finger to the conjecture of Carl's neck and shoulder, hoping to find a pulse. Her eyes go glassy and she keeps uttering her mantra, wishing, hoping, praying.

Ron, in a last ditch effort, springs upon the dead body and starts frantically pushing on his chest, trying CPR to the best of his ability. He's not really sure what he's doing, his knowledge of how to give the life-saving technique pertains to thirty minutes of practice on a doll in health class six years ago. He tries anyway, pushing harder and harder, so hard he wonders if he's breaking any ribs.

"Ron," Glenn whispers. "Ron, stop…"

Ron ignores him and keeps trying. His palms start to ache and sweat pools down his forehead along with the blood. He quickly gives up and tries the second technique he learned from that 30 minute seminar in 3rd grade; mouth to mouth. He opens Carl's slack jaw and mushes his mouth against his. It's not nearly as pleasant as it usually is since his lips are lifeless and cold. It feels like kissing that plastic doll. He inhales deeply through his nose, taking in so much air that his lungs strain, and blows out into Carl's mouth, clamping his fingers down around the dead boy's nose.

He does this ten times, sixteen times, twenty four times...until he's light headed and blue in the face. He finally collapses on his side with a scream of frustration and loss. Glenn, Daryl, and Glenn look down at him with teary eyes full of sympathy and pity. Michonne presses her fingers desperately to his neck again, muttering prayers to a god she doesn't believe in under her breath. Ron hears her pleas and starts to cry, feeling useless and broken.

He hears Michonne screech, a sound so unfitting for her and reminding him of a goose. He squeezes his eyes shut, knowing that the absence of a pulse under her finger tips has her broken.

27.) Lovesick: *slash*

"Ron, are you feeling ok?" Jessie asks as her son walks in the front door and plops down on the sofa, flushed in the face and fidgeting like a kid with ADHD times two.

"Uh...y-yeah," he mutters, running a shaky hand through his hair and keeping his eyes locked on the carpet.

"You don't look so good, honey. You look feverish," Jessie says with worry, making her way across the room and putting her palm to his forehead to check his temperature. "You feel warm. You sure you're feeling ok?"

"Um, my stomach is a little...quesy," he admits sheepishly, squirming more under his mother's gaze.

Jessie nods. "You look sick. Have you been feeling quesy all day?"

Ron pauses to think, then shakes his head. "N-no, only for the last couple of minutes actually."

Jessie nods, brow furrowing with worry. "Why don't you go up to your room and lay down? When your dad gets home he'll take a look."

Ron nods and shakily stands up and wobbles his way up the steps and to his room, clutching his side so hard that his knuckles turn white as coke.

A few minutes later, Jessie pops her head in her son's room to check on him, thermometer and motrin in hand.

"Hey baby, just came to check on you," she says as she observes her son slumped over on his side and staring at the ceiling. "I've got some motrin and I wanted to take your temperature."

Ron doesn't reply as his mother sits down on his bed and offers him the capful of pink liquid.

"Ron."

"...What?"

His mom motions for him to take the medicine, looking even more concerned now. He swallows the vile stuff with a cringe before flopping back over and tracing his lips with his one hand and his other flying back to grip at his side. His mom notices this and drops the thermometer, going wide eyed.

"Does your side hurt?" she asks worriedly.

Ron nods, closing his eyes.

"Oh shit," Jessie mutters, hopping to her feet. "Please tell me that's not your right side."

"Uh…." he drawls, squeezing his side even harder and cleaving his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Oh shit, oh shit, shit," she mutters, shaking her head. "It is. That's your appendix. Ok, shit. Um….stay here, I'm gonna run and go get your dad. Don't move and don't worry, ok?"

Ron doesn't reply, sighing out heavily through his nose, his frazzled and dazed mind still caught up in replaying what happened fifteen minutes ago over and over again.

Jessie returns about six minutes later with Denise in tow (her husband had been busy performing a rather serious surgery: removing a bullet from some poor unfortunate woman's lung).

"Ron?" Jessie calls as she sprints up the stairs. "Denise is gonna look at you, ok? You feeling alright?"

"Uh…..yeah," he mutters, rolling over as his bedroom door is thrown open to reveal his very distressed mother and Denise.

"Hey Ron," Denise greets, walking over to his bedside and placing a hand on his forehead like his mother had done earlier. "You're not looking too hot, huh? How are you feeling?"

"Um," Ron mutters, closing his eyes again. "I don't think I'm sick."

Denise can't help but laugh. "You sure look sick. You've got a fever and your mom told me your right side hurts really bad, and I can tell from the way you're gripping it. She said you feel nauseous too. That's not good Ron, those are symptoms of appendicitis. You know what that is?"

"Isn't that when your appendix, like, blows up or something?"

"Yeah, something like that," Denise says as she rolls the lanky boy over onto his other side and lifts up his hoodie so she can feel up his side. "Tell me if touching you hurts, ok?"

Ron shakes his head. "Um...I'm not sick...I'm just….shocked."

Denise's eyebrows knit together as her hands run over Ron's side and she finds that his appendix is not swollen at all, ruling out her previous diagnosis. "What do you mean?" she asks.

"Ron?" his mom questions from the doorway.

Ron blushes. "Something really….surprising happened and…" he groans, burying his head in his hands as he remembers once again what happened. "I did something stupid."

"Well, I suppose that could account for the shaking and sometimes people spike anxious fevers. That doesn't explain your side hurting though," Denise says as she yanks Ron's hoodie back down and takes a step back.

Ron sighs and shakes his head. "I ran so fast that I've got stitches….that's all."

Denise nods. "Alright….so…..are you going to share what happened or is it too personal?"

Ron just shakes his head and groans pitifully again. "I'm such an idiot," he mutters. "I screwed it up. I blew it."

Denise takes that as her que to go, knowing this is probably strictly family business, and she leaves Jessie with her son. Jessie sits on her son's bed and peppers him with questions the second she's out of the bedroom.

On her way back to the infirmary, Denise runs into Carl….literally. Both stagger backwards in surprise.

"O-oh, uh….sorry Denise," Carl mutters, looking flustered. Like Ron, he's shaking and red in the face.

"No big deal. Are you ok, Carl? You don't look so good."

Carl cringes and sighs. "Yeah….I just….."

"What?" Denise prompts gently.

"I did something really stupid and fucked a lot of stuff up."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you need to talk about it?" She offers.

Carl quickly shakes his head. "Gaah! No, I'm...I'm good. I don't wanna hold you up or anything."

"Trust me, it's a slow day for me. Go ahead, shoot kiddo."

"I um….well….I kissed somebody and it was really stupid of me, ok? I kissed them and...then they ran away from me before I could apologize."

"Geez. Did they say anything to you?"

Carl looks at his feet and shakes his head. "No...they just ran like hell. I probably scared them off forever, huh?"

Denise pats him on the shoulder, smiling knowingly. "I don't think so….but….I do think you got them sick."

Carl stares at her in confusion. "Wh-what?"

"You gave them what you're clearly suffering from right now. You made them really lovesick."

28.) Murky:

"I don't think this water's safe to drink," Carl warns, still panting as Abraham dunks a canister under the dark surface of the filthy lake, adorned with walker bits bobbing around on the surface.

"I ain't gonna drink it right away," Abraham responds, chest heaving as he breathes heavily. "I'm just collectin' it. I'll give it to Rosita later to purify. I don' know how to do it, but she sure as hell does."

Ron watches the ginger as he places his hands on his knees and puffs out, face bright red with exhaustion. "We...we told her we were gonna meet up at that CVS if we got separated...right?"

"Yeah," Carl says, leaning back against a tree. "So….I guess we'll circle back around and head there in a few minutes. I just hope….we don't have to detour too much because of the hoard."

Ron shakes his head. "We lost 'em because a car siren went off somewhere East of here. We'll probably be….ok if we cut back around, back by the train tracks."

"Sounds like a plan," Carl says with a nod, starting to finally regain his breath after the mad dash from the swarmed mall parking lot. He shifts the heavy bag of baby supplies, intended for Maggie's newborn, and straightens up. "I just hope Rosita, Aaron, and Daryl got away and are ok."

"Me too. They probably are, I've come to the conclusion that Daryl is an immortal among men," Ron jokes, shooting his friend a reassuring smile.

Carl returns the favor before loudly clapping his hands and turning towards the third member of the party. "You ready Abraham?"

The red haired man doesn't respond. He's dropped the canister and it's disappeared under the murky surface. He's gone totally rigid and still, like a gargoyle.

"Abraham?" Ron questions, taking a step towards his run-mate.

The man still doesn't move or reply, staring at the water with half-lidded eyes, rather lizard like in appearance.

"Abraham?" Carl asks worriedly. "Can you hear us?"

After a few tense seconds of silence Abraham lowly replies. "It's the….the water."

"What about it?" Ron asks, quirking an eyebrow in confusion.

"The water," Abraham says again. "It's….murky."

"Yeah, that's why we shouldn't drink it until Rosita purifies it," Carl says in confusion, not sure WHAT this odd conversation is about or WHY they're having it. "Are you ok, Abraham?"

Abraham nod sand sighs out heavily through his nose and closing his eyes as if in pain. "It looks like Kyle's eyes did. It reminds me of my son's eyes….they looked like this, dark and murky. From the second he opened them as a newborn, they looked like this and I remember how he just….stared around that hospital room with 'em."

Carl and Ron remain silent and give the man a few moments to regain his composure. After about three minutes Abraham loudly and emotionlessly barks at Ron and Carl to start to head back around to the cross section they came from, murky water forgotten, or rather buried in his conscience again underneath the rubble of his dead children.

29.) Warm: *slash*

Sometimes at night, Carl wakes up and forgets he's safe. He forgets that outside his sturdy and secure house, there are even more secure and well guarded walls that protect him from any harm. He wakes up scared, groping at his side for his holster and shivering again like he's sleeping on the ground in the boonies or on the floor of some abandoned and rodent infested apartment. He sometimes can even hear moaning and groaning and smell rotten flesh. He can feel harsh winds that aren't there bite at him and hear imaginary people screaming and yelling and crying out for the mercy of death. Sometimes it's so vivid that he lets out a shout and bolts up right, backing off the edge of his bed.

He wakes up scared, cold, and thinking that he's about to be slain or ripped apart by decaying hands.

It used to be worse though, when he first arrived at Alexandria's front stoop. Now he only feels cold and scared for a few moments when he wakes up. Now he wakes up wrapped up in secure arms that envelope him like a homemade sweater. He wakes up to find he's still sharing Ron's body heat, and once he's calm, he curl's even closer to him. Sometimes Ron's awake, pulled from his sleep by Carl's squirming and shouting. Those are the best times because Ron gives him a sad smile, pushes his hair off his forehead, and presses a warm sleepy kiss there before pulling him closer and murmuring stupid gooey things in his ear until he drifts off again.

Carl still feels like he's dying when he awakens, but now it's a much more pleasant way that he never even considered or thought was real.

30.) Flower: *slash*

"So….is this thing you guys are doing tonight….is it a date?" Enid asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Um….sort of I guess. Can you just, like, hang out with your boyfriend?" Carl asks with a shrug. "I mean, I'm seriously asking because I have no freaking clue how this kinda stuff works."

Enid smiles. "Don't worry, Ron doesn't either. Actually, earlier today he was asking me..….oh wait, I probably shouldn't tell you," she says teasingly in a sort of sing song way.

"What?" Carl asks curiously. Enid smiles again when she realizes Carl bit the bait.

"I promised him I wouldn't tell you," Enid says lowly , patting Carl on the back. "Sorry."

Carl rolls his eyes. "C'mon Enid, just tell me already."

"I wish I could but I can't."

"I'll just ask Mik then, you tell him everything anyway and unlike you, he doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut."

"Ok, fine...Ron and I were talking earlier and he was worried that he wasn't doing this whole 'dating thing' right, as he put it. He was explaining to me that he was well aware neither of you are exactly….romantic people but that he thought he was doing it wrong. So….he asked me what I would want my boyfriend to do for me on a daily basis and how I'd want him to treat me."

Carl stares at her dubiously and feels his stomach cramp nervously. "But….he realizes you and I obviously will want different stuff out of a relationship, right? I mean, besides the fact that you're a chick and I'm a dude, we're different people in general."

Enid cackles, almost evilly, and nods. "I don't know, alls I know is that he asked me. So I told him."

Carl pales, hoping Ron didn't abide to her answers. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him that I wanted my boyfriend to treat me with respect and give me personal space when I need it, which is something we have in common," Enid starts. Carl can't help but sigh in relief. That's not bad at all and it's true, Carl does need his space and his alone time or he gets a little stir crazy.

"I told him that I'd want my boyfriend to greet me with a kiss and a few flowers."

Carl blanches again and groans, feeling extremely uncomfortable at the mere thought of Ron showing up at his front door with a bouquet of flowers that he pulled at the park, clumps of dirt still sticking to the roots, and with a big nervous grin on his face.

He buries his face again in his hands and mutters something about killing himself when he thinks about his DAD answering the door and seeing that. His dad is already a little weird when Ron shows up at the front door, he can't even imagine how awkward and interrogative he'd be if Ron was standing there with flowers.

Enid laughs as she watches her friend cringe and groan.

"You don't think he'll show up at my house tonight with….flowers, do you?" He asks weakly, saying flowers in such a way that you'd think he was talking about a whore of a girlfriend he was bringing home that everyone disapproved of.

Enid shrugs. "I honestly don't know. He might, I mean, he did ask me for advice so…"

Carl groans again and shakes his head. "Oh crap, I hope he doesn't. If my dad answers the door-"

Enid bursts into laughter before he can further elaborate.


End file.
